


simple rebellion physics (an interactive guidebook)

by philthestone



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, in the spirit of limelight's amazing rogue squadron antics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After much deliberation, careful study, and scientific analysis, Wes Janson decides that the Fate Of The Galaxy is entirely dependent on the state of Senator-Princess Leia Organa's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	simple rebellion physics (an interactive guidebook)

**Author's Note:**

> haha OKAY so this is. Entirely silly nonsense and has zero plot at all, just something I clacked out after going back and re-reading Limelight's amazing fics and falling in love with her version of Janson, Mothma, and the other crazy Rogues once again. I really should be working on ten other things, and I'm STILL plodding along trying to finish the now-completely-out-of-hand 30-pages-later-and-it's-still-not-done companion fic to "switch on the sky", but. This happened.
> 
> additionally, Janson/Mothma is my secret weakness.
> 
> The general timeline (bc I realized I should probably specify) is immediately post-ESB. The Rogues have been broken up after Echo Base was overrun, and now have nothing to occupy their time with other than desperate attempts to salvage the Fate of The Rebellion through operation Cheer Up Luke and Leia.
> 
> (Reviews are Agent Carter getting a feature length film pLEASE)

If occurring at any other point in time, the tableau in the Spartan white office could be considered almost comical.

“Are you telling me,” says Supreme Commander Mon Mothma, elegantly-robed arm lifting so that she can press a finger to her temple. “Are you telling me, Lieutenant, that I am _obligated_ to give Calrissian and Chewbacca clearance when there is _Imperial activity in the airspace near us_ , because Senator-Princess Organa’s _hair_ is down?” 

“Yes, Ma’am,” is the grave response to the liberally-italicized statement. “It’s the only foreseeable way of preventing the ultimate demise of the Rebellion.”

“Janson,” says the Supreme Commander, giving a Look that general consensus agrees is capable of causing genitals and other such important bodily organs to run for cover in fear. “What. In Force’s name. Are you talking about.”

Wes Janson gives her a raised eyebrow that could quite possibly be saying _really, do I need to spell this out_ and _I expect better from the high-class leader of the Rebellion_ and continues to do a bad job at standing to attention semi-decently.

“The end of the world,” explains Janson. “The Empire’s evil plot to bring down the Rebellion.”

“Aside from blasting us out of the heavens repeatedly, you mean?" (And her tone, Janson notes, would be the phrase "dripping with sarcasm" personified.) "Because, as far as I can surmise, the presence of Imperials less than two parsecs away is evil enough as it is, and I have no desire to do anything that might cause them to come closer.” 

(He can admit to the afore-mentioned genitals quivering slightly, but Wes Janson is made of stronger stuff than the General Consensus.)

“Well, yes,” says Janson. “Obviously, those bastards’ve discovered how to manipulate the secret inner workings of the Alliance, and High Command is tragically ensnared in their conniving plot.”

“I see,” says the Supreme Commander, turning to face the other two pilots standing to attention beside Janson. “And we have come to this conclusion how, exactly?”

“Simple Rebellion Physics, Ma’am,” says Hobbie Klivian.

“As in, the common Grounds Rules that every pilot is taught when they join,” adds Wedge Antilles helpfully, though the definition of “help” might have been subject to alteration in this particular circumstance.

“I see,” she repeats, despite the fact that all evidence points to the fact that she does not see at all, in Janson’s opinion. Though, he must admit, her hair is looking particularly bright today.

“Janson,” she says when he mentions this, “shut up.”

“You see,” says Janson, doing the opposite of shutting up, “simple Rebellion Physics dictates that the general wellbeing of the Alliance as a whole can be gleaned from the state of a few particulars.”

“In the event,” continues Antilles, “that these particulars are off, maimed, incapacitated, or otherwise depressed, the downfall of the Alliance is, logically, inevitable.”

“I see,” says the Supreme Commander for the third time, and Janson wonders briefly if it is only when he (or they – he supposes that it would be dreadfully self-centered to take sole credit for the Supreme Commander’s chagrin) happens to be around that she resorts to disbelieving monosyllables. “And the Princess’s hair being down relates to this – how?”

“Well,” says Klivian.

“Well,” says Antilles.

“ _Well_ ,” agrees Janson. “That should be obvious.”

“Obvious,” repeats Mon Mothma.

“Mmm,” says Klivian.

“A regular no-brainer, Supreme Commander.”

“With all due respect intended, of course,” adds Antilles hastily, because the reproductive organs have now quite possibly disappeared entirely and it’s the spleen’s turn to quiver. “Ma’am.”

“As dictated by the previously-mentioned Rules of the Rebellion –”

“There _are_ no rules of the Rebellion,” says the Supreme Commander, and it’s really very likely that the organs might be spontaneously combusting into flames, were that physically possible (Janson thinks that he wouldn’t put it past her). “Not like that, at any rate.” 

“The _unspoken_ Rules of the Rebellion,” amends Antilles.

“Everyone knows them, Supreme Commander,” says Klivian, looking as though he can’t believe members of High Command could be so uninformed.

“Rule one:” says Janson, with a deep breath and a sweeping gesture with his hand that might have been appropriate were he announcing the presence of a grand duchess, but only succeeding in nearly knocking one of Mon Mothma’s plants off the desk. “The collapse of the Universe _is nigh_ when Senator-Princess Leia’s hair is down.”

There is a pause, which _should_ be for dramatic effect, thinks Janson, but really it’s just because the Supreme Commander has momentarily lost her ability to speak in light of her sudden, tragic muteness (and it’s the sort of muteness that comes from total and utter despair, if Janson were the psychoanalyzing type and thought about it that way). Really, he thinks, those soft choking noises probably qualify as unattractive in any other life form that is vaguely humanoid. He also thinks that were he to mention this to the Supreme Commander, sharp rusty implements of the incredibly not-hypothetical nature might be waved in the general direction of his vitals, so he wisely refrains. 

(Additionally, his contemplation of the attractiveness of the Supreme Commander in relation to any sort of spluttering is probably just bad for his general health.)

“Janson,” she finally manages. “Antilles. Klivian. _Get out of my office_.”

“No offense, Ma’am, but you don’t look so good. Do you maybe need a glass of water?”

“It’s the extending influence of the Empire,” guesses Janson. “I should’ve known. First Luke and Leia; now our beloved Supreme Commander.”

“ _Janson –”_

“See, here’s the thing,” interrupts Klivian with a bow. (Bows, Janson has learned, are a generally effective way of forestalling court marshals in response to insubordinate actions similar to the interruption of superior officers). “The Imps ambushed Solo and Leia on Bespin, right?”

The Supreme Commander takes a deep breath and appears to silently count to ten before opening her eyes and clasping her hands in front of her. “That was the official report, yes.”

“And then,” continues Janson, “Vader, in all his bastardly glory, sold Han to that guy, whatsis name –”

“Boba Fett,” says Antilles. “Honestly Wes, you’re so behind the times.”

“Yes, him,” says Janson, waving an arm in the general direction of “out of the room” in order to indicate Fett’s possible position in the galaxy. “And lopped off _our_ Squadron Commander’s hand.”

"Kriffing shavhead," growls Antilles reflexively, and Klivian nods in assent.

“Yes,” says the Supreme Commander tightly, “and we’ve all agreed that this was an incredibly distressing and unsavory turn of events. Now if you don’t get to your point in the next thirty seconds, Janson - Antilles, I really expected better of you - and, Klivian, I'm not even going to ask - I will forcibly eject you out of an airlock _myself_.”

“Noted,” says Janson. “Hobbie, please inform the Supreme Commander of our point.”

“This _all_ ,” says Klivian with appropriate gravitas, “was done on _purpose._ ”

If crickets existed on board space stations, they would be chirping.

“I believe the colloquial pilot expression would be _‘no shavit’_ , Lieutenant,” says the Supreme Commander. Antilles looks annoyed.

“Force’s sake, Hobs, you make it sound so simple. Our _point_ , Ma’am, is, where does this leave us? Leia’s depressed. Luke is even more depressed. And that depression – ”

“Has consequently led to Leia’s hair being down –”

“No seriously it was just one braid down her back –”

“No pins or anything –”

“And, _as such_ ,” concludes Janson, spreading his hands out dramatically as though he’s divulged the answer to one of Life’s Great Mysteries, “in adherence to Rule Number One of the Rebellion, the universe is rightly doomed.”

“So,” continues Antilles, before the poor Supreme Commander can manage an official dismissal (or possibly a court marshal). “ _So_ , brass needs to give Calrissian and the Wook clearance. Or all is doomed.” 

“Unchangeably,” adds Janson. “We’ll probably all die. Troops’ morale is low enough as it is.”

“Bloody Imps,” says Klivian succinctly. 

The Supreme Commander stares at them.

“You want me to give Calrissian and Chewbacca clearance because Senator-Princess Organa’s hair is pertinent to the troops’ morale.”

“Yes Ma’am,” chorus three voices at once. 

“And this is … part of an Imperial plot to overthrow the Rebellion.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“And you expect me to _not_ sign off the three of you for psychotherapy with orders to check in directly to the medicenter.”

“Actually, Ma’am,” says Janson, “that was entirely expected.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Klivian, wrinkling his nose in what is undoubtedly grievous offence. “I’m not stepping foot in that center – their rations are even more pathetic than the ones at mess.”

“Another Imperial Plot,” suggests Janson seriously. “Hit ‘em when they’re already down, you know.”

“Come off it Wes,” says Antilles, rolling his eyes. “Now you’re just being paranoid.”

“Ten credits it’s a real thing, mate.”

“You haven’t got ten credits to –”

 _“Gentlemen,”_ sound the resounding, harsh tones of the Supreme Commander’s voice, heralding immediate and respectful silence and a possible return of the hypothetical crickets.

“Yes, Ma’am?” asks Antilles meekly after a moment of silence.

“I am going to count to ten. If you are still within the general vicinity of this sector of the ship when ten is reached, you will be maimed. Is that understood?”

“Transparently, Ma’am.”

“Not a doubt in our minds, Supreme Commander.”

“Not to speak out of turn,” says Janson, “but what about Calrissian and Chewbacca?”

She exhales thinly.

(Janson, in a flash of clarity and wisdom, quickly amends his previous statement regarding his differing from the General Consensus.)

**

And then they're gone, and Mon slides down into her seat and stares at the fallen potted plant for roughly twenty-eight standard seconds before picking up her personal comm.

“Jan,” she says to the brusque _“Dodonna here,”_ that answers her call. “Tell operations to give Mr. Calrissian his clearance to leave with the Millenium Falcon, please.”

The general is silent for a moment.

“There are Imperial patrols –”

“Yes,” says Mon. “I am well aware.”

“I see.”

“Yes,” she agrees. And hesitates. “Thank you, General.” 

"I do hope you know what you're doing, Mon."

(And when, later in evening mess, she glimpse Leia with her hair tucked away in a neat bun at the base of her skull, some of the pallor returning to her skin, she can’t help but think that the risk might actually be worth it.)


End file.
